Has your body ever done something that was completely out of your control

Maybe she thinks that because it's dark and smoky in here, it makes what she's doing acceptable. Maybe she thinks the ever-moving shadows in here will hide her.

They don't. It doesn't.

Yet, for some reason, I'm back again, despite the nauseous feeling that seems to devour me within moments of me entering. I don't have to see her to feel the bile rising to my throat. The atmosphere is enough to make me sick. Cigarette smoke eats me alive, and I can barely see in front of me due to the consuming darkness. The only area with light is the stage, each harsh ray wrapping around the long poles that stand in solidarity in spaced out sections, one girl assigned to each.

The music is slow and seductive, and as much as it sickens me to be here, my primal side comes out as I slide into a seat on the edge of the stage, somewhere I know she'll see me, where I can bore guilt into her hazel eyes from my blue ones.

The blonde in front of me is shimmying, slowly peeling back the black robe to reveal a pair of sumptuous breasts spilling over a red lace bra, her long waves tumbling everywhere. Her hips swing, and I can't help but feel myself stiffen, knowing that as dirty as this job is, it works. It fucking works.

She walks past me, hips tossing, hands traveling down her sides, itching to be touched. A guy reaches over from the darkness and puts a twenty into her thong, and she winks at him with a pout. Thank you.

The music continues to thump, muffling conversations, making the entire scene one of lust, desire and sex. The blonde waitress for my area leans over me, intentionally showering me in her large assets, as she places my Tanqueray on the rocks on the small, circular table to my right. My instincts take over, inhaling her, and when she whispers into my ear, asking what a "sexy gentleman" like myself is doing in this shit hole?, I can't help but run my hand down her bare back to her ass, resting it there, feeling her shiver underneath my touch, before whispering, "I ordered a water too."

The rules are you can look, but you can't touch, but for some reason, I've been the exception. I have a nice-guy vibe, even though I can be harsh and dangerous, just like the girl I'm waiting for. But she has that image. You don't have to know her to know she's dangerous. It's written all over her. Me? You have to get to know me to know how fucked up I can be.

The blonde on stage does another once-around, collecting the last of her tips, now completely topless. When she comes to me, I smile crookedly, placing a ten on the floor in front of her. She bends over with a smirk, knowing my intentions, and her breasts dip in front of me. She pulls herself back up in slow motion, winking at me quickly before walking away. Her bare back becomes smaller as she creeps back into the darkness, back into the smoke that swirls around her, away from the beaming lights that expose every inch of her milky flesh.

I sip my Tanqueray and wait.

A new song begins. I know that it's her signal, so I pull my chair closer to the edge, tapping my foot impatiently on the floor.

I hate the wait.

It makes me nauseous to see her, but she's so damn sexy, all I can think about is how I want to climb onto the stage and fuck her until her throat hurts too much to scream my name anymore. I hate seeing her clad in these ridiculous outfits, yet I sometimes insist that she sneaks some out after work, just so I can see them during our more private shows.

She prowls from the darkness where the last crawled into, her signature smirk planted on her face. It gets every guy toward the edge of their cheap chairs, sipping their drinks just to keep their hands busy.

Last night, it was a black fur coat and pink bra and matching thong. Tonight, it's a short white dress that clings to every last inch of her. It has a zipper down the middle, going from the low plunge "V" shape of the neck to the very end of the white dress which lands right underneath her waist, and I know that in a few minutes, by the next song, it'll be completely discarded; just another prop in the illusion she's trying to create.

She places a hand onto the metal pole and spins herself in a circle, taking a look at her audience. Immediately, there are a few howls from the depths, and my reflexes tell me to hunt the guy who dared to do it down and punch him until he's begging for mercy, but then she wraps herself around the pole and flips herself over. Her dark hair, curly tonight, falls behind her as she smiles seductively, stretching one leg upward.

She hasn't spotted me yet.

She gets herself upright again, and its taking everything in my power not to reach out, to grab her, to moan, while I imagine us in the backseat of my car, naked, her on top of me, the friction of our bare skin enough to make me faint.

She reaches for the top of the zipper, pulling it down slowly to reveal the black see-through bra she's sporting tonight. She leaves the dress zipped half way, the material pulling her breasts together so tightly that they're exploding from her bra, looking for a way out.

They'll find one soon.

She walks across the edge of the stage, collecting bills as she goes. I watch the offerings coming from the darkness. Mostly twenties, but some give her fifties, and one guy even throws a hundred her way. She gives each a sly smile or a wink, something to show how much she appreciates what scum bags they are for supporting her line of work.

I know it's not about the money, and I know that their opinions don't faze her, but, still it makes me fume to see them pay her to be this person that I hate.

I hate her, but I want her so badly.

As she gets closer to me, I feel my pants grow tighter, my breath catching in my throat. I try to keep my cool, but she makes it so damn hard. I want to run my mouth all over her, but I can't.

I hate this, but I can't keep my eyes off her.

She reaches the area in front of me, looking down, running her hands down from her breasts to her thighs. When she sees that it's me, her face becomes serious and ashamed, but only for a moment. The next second, it's back to seduction and I wonder if I really saw the guilt in her eyes.

She knows what I want. She always knows what I want. So she gives it to me. And she'll keep giving it to me.

She unzips a little further, remaining glued to the stage before me, revealing a matching translucent black thong. She shimmies the dress off, discarding it to the dirty stage floor, before dipping her thumbs behind the elastic of the lingerie, tracing the inside in opposite directions. She pulls them lower on her hips, and I can see the Chinese tattoo that reminds me of better days. I'm at full attention now, my eyes hungrily following each curve of her body. She still has her black rimmed eyes on me (they're painted with the smoke of the room, it seems) when she reaches between the cups of her bra to unlatch it altogether. Suddenly, in a wave, both of her creamy, voluptuous breasts are sitting exposed, the bra finding its way to the top of the white dress, the stark contrast almost blinding in the dark room. Black and white.

We're as different as black and white.

And all I want to do is fuck her.

She blinks at me again, her hands falling to her sides, almost as if she's defeated, before walking down to the opposite edge of the stage, hands on her hips, giving the rest of the hungry eyes a taste of what they can't touch.

Mine, I want to scream. Every part of her is mine, and mine alone. They don't have to know that, but we do.

They give her more bills, and I just watch, mesmerized by her body. Every move she makes is absolutely intoxicating, and I can't help but fantasize. She gets down to the floor on her knees, spreading them apart, circling so that her stomach ripples with each movement, her chest bouncing.

Every location. I want her in every single location possible, and I want my mouth marking her neck and her thighs and her hips, just so I can prove that she's mine. I need to mark what's mine.

And before I know it, she's retreating back to the darkness where she came from, where each girl comes from, and I'm left alone, waiting for the beginning of the next song.

But I don't wait.

I gulp down the last of my drink, and I go outside, pulling the pack of cigarettes out of my jeans. I lean against the brick of the building before pulling out a single cigarette. I roll it between my fingers, watching it with carefulness as not to drop it, trying to compose the words in my head that I can yell and scream until she feels like shit.

She comes around the corner of the building in a trench coat, her long legs shining in the yellow light of the parking lot. She's still wearing the black platform shoes she performed in tonight. She forces a dimple-less smile at me, but it doesn't do anything to erase my scowl.

"You're disgusting up there," I spit bitterly at her as she takes the cigarette out of my hand greedily. She reaches into the coat pocket, pulling out a lighter that's etched with swirling designs and a large script "B" in the middle. She flicks it open, lighting the cigarette in one fell swoop, before pocketing it again, placing the white rod into her mouth and inhaling deeply.

"Fuck you," she murmurs in her raspy voice as she leans in to kiss my neck. She moves up from my racing pulse to the spot behind my ear, and I can feel my knees weaken as she sucks it slowly. "I fucking hate you," she whispers before flicking her tongue across my ear.

I rest my hand on the small of her back, pulling her waist toward mine so she can feel how aroused I am. She places her free hand on my chest and kisses my jaw softly before pushing herself backwards from me.

"Just quit," I plead softly. "Just quit."

She shakes her head and takes another, slow drag from her cigarette. It's another piece of her that I can't stand, this new habit she's picked up, but I can't deny how incredibly sexy she looks with smoke strands swirling from her lips toward the inky sky.

She walks toward the alleyway she came from, and when I don't immediately follow, she looks over her shoulder and tilts her head, her smirk beckoning me.

So I follow because I want her. I want every last piece.

When I get into the darkened area, her back is against the wall as she holds the cigarette to her lips for a final drag, before throwing it to the ground, stomping it out slowly. I watch her, because I know she hates it.

"Stop," she murmurs, as if on cue, before she starts toying with the tie on her trench coat. "You know I hate when people stare at me like that."

I do know this. That's why I can't understand how she can do her job with at least a hundred pairs of eyes ogling her like she's the lamb and they're famished tigers. I step toward her. "If you hate it so much, then fucking quit."

She bows her head down and undoes the tie around her waist. The long, black coat opens to reveal the outfit she had just been performing in. I reach out to where I know her tattoo is. Although I can't see it clearly in the darkness of the alley, I know exactly where it starts, and where it ends. I latch my fingers onto her hipbone and trace it with my thumb. She places her hand on top of mine and holds onto it, she holds on for dear life, and I need her. I need her, and I want her.

"I only hate it when it's the people that matter."

I look into her eyes now, trying to figure out what's on her mind. Ever since everything happened, I can't read her. I can't fucking read any of her true emotions anymore, and it makes my heart burn. The only thing I can ever read in them anymore is lust. I latch onto the edges of the coat and push it over her shoulders and it slides down her arms onto the floor with ease. My hands run down her bare arms, my eyes still focused in on her. She shuts her eyes to escape mine, and I can feel the goose bumps form underneath me. I press against her, feeling her body arch to meet mine, before I capture her lips with mine hungrily. I feel her moan against my lips, and I press her to the wall with more force. Her leg wraps around mine lazily, pulling me even closer in, if possible.

"I need you," I whisper into her ear.

"Stop talking and fuck me," she begs.

I hate hearing her say it like that. I know that whatever we are, it's more than just fucking.

"Fuck me," she ushers, her fingers digging into my back. "Fuck me."

It's almost strange that I'm still fully clothed while she's in nothing but barely-existent lingerie and high heels. I want her to undress me, kissing my exposed skin tenderly as she pulls each article of clothing off.

But I know that it hasn't been like that for awhile.

"Do you have your car?" she asks, her breath hot against my ear, making me harder, if possible. I nod, feeling her mouth rub against my jaw with the motion.

She wraps her legs around my waist, encircling her arms around my neck. "I want you. I want you so badly."

In the dark of the parking lot with only small yellow strands of light, you can't see us stumbling, her body still latched onto mine, toward my truck. I lean my back up against the red metal of the passenger door and she latches her lips with mine once again. My hands rest on her bare ass, squeezing when she rubs against me in a way that furthers me toward the edge of my pleasure.

"Brooke," I mumble as her eyes focus on the buttons of my shirt, her fingers fumbling due to the speed she's attempting. I bury my face in her messy chocolate locks. "Brooke, I need you."

She unravels her legs from my waist and somehow, her platformed feet land smoothly onto the ground. Wrapping one arm over her stomach, as if it'll cover her naked flesh, she pushes me sideways with her free hand so that she can reach the handle of the door. Once it's exposed, she pulls it open and steps in. She sits on the black leather and waits for me to get in.

I don't.

Instead, I rest my back against the door and run my hands through my hair, trying to contain my anger. The second I show emotion, that I care about her, she locks herself up, locks herself into a car, sometimes a room, sometimes it's her dressing room at the club. Anything to get away from feeling alive. Anything to get away from feeling real.

She reaches for the old-fashioned crank that lowers the window after a few moments. My chest heaves up and down as I take deep breaths. I know that this isn't my fault, but sometimes, I can't help but blame myself.

"Get in," she says. I know she's addressing me, but I don't give a fuck. I rub my face tiredly and realize that the anger turns me on even more.

"I wanna fuck you," she demands, her tone harsh. She sighs when I don't answer. "Baby," she says more softly. She reaches her arm out the window and places it on my shoulder. "Stop acting like this is something new," she says tiredly. "Get in, and let's go. I want you. I want you right here, right now."

I want to scream. I want to scream loud enough to make her realize how stupid she's being. But then my mind reels back to her dancing on the stage, and suddenly, I don't know if I can breathe unless I push myself inside of her immediately.

I dive into the driver's seat and she immediately throws her leg over me, straddling my waist. She continues where she left off, unbuttoning my shirt as I watch her facial expressions.

Expression.

Her face is blank besides the traces of lust and eagerness that are ever-present.

She pushes the shirt off of me the same way I pushed her trench coat off only a few minutes before. She unlatches her bra in the same way she did on stage, but this time, instead of immediately shimmying the black garment off, she places her hands on her chest to cover what's about to be exposed. She smiles crookedly at me, and seeing her like this, my primal side reappears and I rip her hands from her breasts and replace them with mine. I massage them roughly, and although I see her wince for a moment, it quickly becomes pleasure. She tilts her head backward and moans before my hands travel down her stomach to her thong.

I start unbuttoning my own pants, her hands holding onto my wrists, following my every motion with her eyes. She lifts herself up so that I can pull my pants down, leaving me only in boxers as they pool at my ankles.

The way we have sex is dirty. It has been for awhile. Most of the time, my clothes aren't even fully off, my shoes still on, as she grabs my waiting area with hers and I can feel her walls closing around me before I even have time to process it.

But tonight, I want it to be as close to proper as we can. I kick my shoes off and let my pants fully fall off into the area near my gas pedal.

She runs her fingers underneath the elastic of my boxers and adjusts her bottom so it rubs against my awaiting parts. The friction of our bodies sends waves of heat all over me, from my fingers to my heels.

"I want you," she repeats for the millionth time. "I want you to fuck me senseless."

She's not lying. She way she holds onto me when we have sex is abnormal. She grasps me with all her might as her body shakes with orgasm, each thrust into her becoming harder and harder just because she's begging me to. She clings to me as if at any moment, I'm going to just get up and leave her for good. I look at her and don't try to hide the worry in my eyes. She worries me with her life, and her job and her new smoking habits. She worries me so much that the sound of her name makes my heart ache.

She puts a hand on each of my cheeks and kisses my forehead. "I'm fucked up, Lucas," she soothes me when she sees my worried face. She smiles slightly. "I'm fucked up."

I shrug, squinting in the way that she hates. "Maybe. But you're mine."

And those words are the ones that steer her hands toward my boxers, ripping them off hungrily, gasping at the sight before her like she's never seen it although we both know that she has millions of times before, before pulling my hands so that they rest on her hips, lifting herself over my hard area, lowering herself as I move my hips to guide myself into her.

She grinds her hips down onto me, and I feel myself thrusting deeper into her with each movement. She's panting as her lips struggle to lock to mine, and I can't help but groan when she pushes herself so hard onto me that I'm sure I'm going to come right there. I stop myself, a shudder running through me, and she moans my name as my fingers wander down to her wetness, then around to her ass.

And then, the primal side of me takes over, pushing further and further into her. "Lucas…" she pants. "Harder, baby. Please," she begs, she rasps, she screams.

It's disgusting how she begs for me to fuck her like I'm just another guy who's using her. Sometimes, I don't even think she's enjoying it when it's as rough as she asks for. Sometimes, I think she just needs to feel the pain of our bodies colliding just to feel something.

Her lips wander to my shoulder, kissing down my arm, sucking occasionally. She pulls back and watches as my head cocks back in pleasure, licking the side of my face before sucking on my neck once again. She always makes sure to pull back before any marks are left. I hate that too.

I mumble gibberish into her hair knowing she's not listening to my words as I kiss down to where her neck and jaw meet. I begin sucking her skin, trying to leave my mark. She runs her hands through my hair resting her chin on my head as I continue to suck.

She shakes her head fiercely and pushes me backward when she realizes that it'll leave my mouth's signature if I continue.

"Just once," I plead. She shakes her head again.

"Fuck you," I protest.

"You already are," she smirks, before plunging forward again, her swollen lips finding mine. And once again, I'm thrusting into her with all my might, feeling her wince occasionally in pain.

I slow down knowing that she can't be comfortable with all the force I'm using. "Lucas…" she mumbles against me. She pulls her lips back from mine, her face contorting from discomfort into confusion.

"Why are you slowing down?"

"Because I was fucking hurting you, Brooke!" I bellow so loud that it makes her cringe.

She shakes her head. "I'm fine. I was fine." Liar.

I look at her skeptically. "I swear, Lucas. You know how I like it…" Liar.

"You like it when you can feel something," I shoot back.

She chuckles. "Well, when you fuck, you're supposed to feel something, aren't you?"

"Stop calling it that," I groan. I realize that I'm still inside of her and that she's rubbing the area just before we meet, knowing that hormones will end the conversation.

"Mhm…" she purrs before arching her back as I become even harder inside of her. "Just fuck me for a little longer, baby," she whispers into my ear. "I'm almost there."

So I push myself forward, resting my hands on the dashboard, as I let every one of my male instincts take over, thrusting in her as hard as I can, knowing that she's in pain, knowing that we will never be anything more than a fuck to her. She wraps her legs around my back, pushing herself into each thrust so that it's even harder than I'm giving it to her.

Her head's resting in the crook of my neck, whispering dirty, vulgar things into my ear that turn me on although they shouldn't.

And suddenly she begins shaking, grasping onto me for dear life, as an orgasm rips through her. Her noises bring me to my edge, and we come in unison, her holding onto me so tightly that her fingers burn into my skin, as sweat keeps us stuck together. My entire body pulses as she begins to disentangle her limbs from my body. When her legs fall to the sides of my thighs, she doesn't get up though. She sits there, fully exposed, and lets my eyes wander.

I put my hands on her sides. "When are you gonna stop being so fucking weak?" I ask.

"I don't wanna fight," she sighs.

"Then quit, goddammit."

"I'm not weak."

"You sure as fucking hell are," I spit angrily, my hands wandering up her sides, underneath her breasts, rubbing her nipples softly with my thumbs. My words are harsh, my hands are caring. "God, I fucking love you and all you wanna do is have sex and work at this dirty fucking place. You know why every girl is in there, Brooke? Because they have no other choice! But the girl who has everything, she wants to be there!"

"Everything I have is nothing," she shrugs, her eyes on my abdomen in order to avoid my gaze. "If you think the shit I have is happiness, you can have it."

"And this, this, is happiness!?" I ask angrily, pulling my hands from her body, motioning wildly between us and then toward the strip club.

She doesn't answer. Instead, she pulls a cigarette from the glove compartment where she hid her own private stash, flicks open the silver lighter with swirling designs, and starts whispering deliciously disgusting dirty things in my ear, as the smoke masks all of the pretty little problems that surround her.

"I want you. I want you so badly."